


Modus Operandi

by redpeppertea087



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, F/M, France (Country), Organized Crime, Poisoners AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpeppertea087/pseuds/redpeppertea087
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France, 1906: Marseilles is on the verge of launching L'Exhibition Coloniale, the most fabulous display of the French colonies' majesty yet to be seen by the civilized world. Visitors from Great Britain, Italy, Spain, Germany, Belgium, and the United States will clog the narrow streets of the bohemian city. In the midst of this splendor is a dark cloud. Young, up-and-coming socialites are expiring by assailants and motivations unknown. Enter popular society-members and pharmacists, Anstice and Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Marseille, France - April, 1906_

The door swung open into the dim alley directly behind the theater and an elegantly dressed woman emerged, head bowed. Turning sharply, she walked at a clipped pace to the dingy passage's entrance, then paused. Across the street, under the awning of a closed book shop, stood a man dressed in appropriate - albeit grim - evening wear. The woman pushed the hood from her head, revealing torrents of matching black curls skimming against the pale skin of her face like twists of wrought iron. Half a second later, her form had darted across the cobbled road to the far sidewalk. The woman materialising at his elbow did not alter the man's stance; the cigarette in his fingers moved continuously to his lips then into open air again. Wisps of tobacco smoke slipped into the cooling night air and a similarly faint voice followed it.

"Which did you use?"

"The strychnine went well with the spray she uses to open her vocal chords," Pursed pink lips parted to answer. A set of ivory teeth appearing to bite and pull at the thinner lower lip. "When she goes, it'll be a way she would've enjoyed; at center stage." Another smoky exhale from the man.

"A few hours, then?"

"Speaking of secret things in public are not conducive to keeping them so." The woman answered tersely. "Might we seek a better forum, brother?" A sigh was heard, then the cigarette was snubbed out on the pavement. The man replaced his hat and offered a stiffly positioned arm to the woman as she replaced her hood. Feeling her hand placed delicately on his bicep, the man gestured down the street away from the theater.

"Come, mademoiselle. Noialles awaits."


	2. La Cantarella

**_Opera Diva Dead_ **

_Last evening, while in the grips of Musetta's farewell prayer to Mimi, famed soprano Irene Adler collapsed into fits. This was the second time Madame Adler played Musetta, and her sudden seizure threw the audience to wonder why she would abandon her character. Mere minutes later, an ambulance arrived and carried the still-writhing diva from La Pivone Rouge theater. Madame Adler died in hospital a quarter-hour past her arrival, watched over by a nurse and her fiance, Godfrey Norton. Doctors could not quell the spasms as the woman was too far gone to be saved. Accidental is being examined as a possibility for cause of death. Mounsieur Norton has announced a memorial service for family in eight day's time. La Pivone Rouge released that it will no longer be staging performances of La Boheme._

_Catherine Riley, 1906_

"You said it had been enough strychnine for an hour at most." Sherlock Holmes commented over the newspaper. His eyes still scanned the page, occasionally flickering up to his sister, Anstice. She did not look up from her breakfast and novel.

"I did." She replied icily, turning the page with a single, slender finger. Both siblings had been awake for several hours and were fully dressed - Sherlock in a plain grey suit, minus the coat, and Anstice in a modest dark blue ensemble. They were quite a pair, the youngest Holmes children: tall, slender, with pale complexions and identical black curls (Anstice's being particularly riotous unless severely pinned back. Even then a few managed to spring free from their binds.) Marseille had been their home for almost three years, since their mother passed and left the French townhouse to Sherlock. They had an eldest brother whom they did not speak to or of often; still, he laid claim to the estate in Scotland that neither Anstice nor Sherlock wanted and all was right with the world.

The door leading from the hallway swung open and an older woman glided into the kitchen with a tray. Though shorter than Anstice, the woman held more authority than either of the siblings - which counted for a lot. She paused at a counter and placed the tray on the granite surface before turning to her charges. The pair had grown coldly silent upon her arrival and, while not unusual, she found it unpleasant.

"You came back early from the play last night."

"The actors left much to be desired in their roles, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock answered with considerably more warmth than his sister had recieved. "We decided to spend the evening on more productive ventures once intermission came round." Mrs. Hudson seemed satisfied with the response for a minute. Anstice had taken to staring out the windows in the meanwhile; tracing the stready rain as it trickled down the clear and colored glass. In a moment, she excused herself to go open the pharmacy; saying that the downturn in that week's beautiful weather would bring an expected influx of worrying mothers and the usual hypochondriacs and it would serve well to be prepared. As she left, her brother passed her a small envelope sealed by a falcon impressed upon silvery blue wax.

"If one of you isn't rushing about, the other is!" Mrs. Hudson mused, collecting Anstice's dishes "I read the bit in the paper about the singer, the terrible thing. Will you be getting a call from the police today?"

Sherlock stood, refolding the newspaper. Tucking it under his arm, he deposited the last of his breakfast dishes at Mrs. Hudson's elbow. "The newspaper has already figured the cause of death, so I doubt Lestrade will need my guidance with the case of Miss Adler. Either way, I need to finish final tests on a new serum so I wouldn't be inclined."

Martha Hudson only nodded as the man placed a familial peck on her cheek and departed. The woman had inkling that Sherlock treated her better than he did his mother, but never dwelt on it too long. Anstice and Sherlock, only three years apart, had always been close in her eyes. Martha had nearly raised the two of them from ages eight and eleven (respectively), seeing the pair through their proper education and finishing schools. Talking Sherlock out of his teenaged rebellions and Anstice from her fears of kitchen knives (unsurprisingly, that one had come out of Sherlock's reign of terror over the little girl. Waking up to find him playing with a cleaver was apparently a frequent occurrence until Anstice turned seven and fought back.)

Joined at the hip as they had been, Sherlock's occupying of the family house in Marseille entailed Anstice moving with him. Cyrille Holmes had passed two springs prior. Martha had been good friends with the lady, having met a few times in an English finishing school. Cyrille had remembered Martha around the time her oldest was born and reconnected with the women. Martha had been offered the position as permanent caretaker for the children once wrangling them proved too much for just one woman. It had been team work getting Mycroft, Sherlock, and Anstice to adulthood but Martha had known it would someday reward her.

Sherlock, a man adherent to no conventional social graces, had himself sent an invitation for Martha to live with them. He still affectionately called her "Mrs. Hudson" and let Anstice write the post-script where the young woman all but begged she come to the Bohemian French city. They wanted her to live out her retirement with them, out of gratitude - though they bickered endlessly about which had the original notion. Regardless, Martha had not expected to spend her final years in the most exciting district - The Noailles. The neighborhood was one expansive, beautifully and maddeningly busy marketplace. It seemed that the whole of Marseille would turn out for the peddlers and their intoxicatingly warm bread, fresh flowers, and vibrant produce. The light smell of the sea wafted over the fishmongers and the barely acrid scent of salt drifted from the cheese-sellers. In the spring, Anstice and Martha would brave the crush of patrons for walks.

Sherlock had always loved science and all things of that nature, eventually roping his younger sister into the art form. Spurring from their knack of creating herbal solutions to their maman's and Martha's little ailments, the siblings had converted the store (attached to the townhouse) into a pharmacy. Anstice was the face of the shop, sensible and welcoming, while Sherlock worked the counter and designed remedies in the back. The first-time customers were easy to point out because they trailed Anstice asking questions and tended to purchase the brand-named tonics. Anstice insisted they be kept on hand, for variety's sake.

The young woman scrawled down every transaction in a worn, leather bound ledger she kept open at the counter. The Holmes siblings never forgot a name or a face - on of many reasons why they had gained such thriving customer loyalty in only two years time. The younger citizens of Marseille valued reviving the old ways, especially when it came to the body. Food, wine and medicine should be dictated by the ways one’s grandmother would recognize, not by some doctor's name on a bottle. So, finishing the breakfast dishes, Martha wandered into the study where she picked up a stained, flexible notebook, a pen and a fresh bottle of ink. Sherlock was brilliant in his own right, but had the ability to be spectacularly ignorant at the best of times.

*                                            *                                            *

Hands stayed firmly under his chin as Sherlock watched the contraption before him. From a vial of murky liquid set atop a burner rose a clear amber liquid. Each distilled droplet wound it's way up the strata of glass tubes the man had rigged up months before. His verdigris irises followed its quick journey as it was pushed up, spiraled down and splashed into another clean vial. The color was correct, as was the odor. The manuscript's timing constraints lined up exactly with his own data. All this for a few ounces is a bit silly, Anstice had teased. So anybody else would say in their brain when confronted with the experiment. For Sherlock, however, his lab work was paramount.

Though he may not appear it outwardly, Sherlock Holmes was brimming with excitement. It had taken years of secondary research and poring through primary documents; months concocting hypotheses, doing trial runs, and a plethora of re-testing. The Sisyphean effort had come to fruition. The twenty-seven year old had successfully recreated La Cantarella, the Borgia family's literal liquid gold. This was his greatest achievement yet (he never liked to set limits to his intellect). surpassing Anstice's formulation of Aqua Toffana based cosmetics.

Sherlock resisted the urge to bolt into the main room and tell his sister; there would be too many people to hear. He swallowed a bit of his all-consuming pride and reclaimed his position behind the counter. Anstice was occupied by a young mother who was talking whilst wrangling her young son and a collection of others were nonchalantly standing by, ready to leap at the chance to pick her brain. Sherlock had to admit: Anstice's patience was one skill he couldn't hope to rival. Shaking his head in amusement, he began looking over the ledger on the counter. Then, he quietly pulled out the small notebook Mrs. Hudson had brought down to him, flipping to the last written-on page.

Both ledgers accounted the store's transactions but the nature of the sales' legality varied between the inscriptions. Picking up a pen, Sherlock took up the gratingly boring task of adding expenses, cross-referencing them with Anstice's meticulously kept inventory. Saying he wasn't wholly invested in the work would have been a gross understatement. His mind was keener on calculating the best point to pull the young woman aside. As the next hour would proves, garnering the woman's attentions was more than difficult. Harboring his frustration, Sherlock tried to apply some new enthusiasm to the new onslaught of customers. Rain always had the marvelous effect of driving people's fears sky-high. On days like that one, it became clear that the Holmes' weren't hurting financially, even without the aid of familial trusts.

"Mr. Holmes." Sherlock glanced up to see a fair-haired man with a faint grin. Sherlock replaced the pen in its holder and nodded. "Mr. Holmes is my brother, Dr. Watson. Anything else is more fitting for me." He answered good-naturedly.

"What do your patients require this week?"

"Whatever you can do for rheumatic, colic, jaundice, and influenza." The doctor replied, falling quickly into the routine the men engaged in at least once a week. The dark-haired man thought for a moment before nodding and turning away to consult the array of heavy labeled wooden drawers in the hulking shelves behind the counter; the very ones that contained the coveted original remedies. As he was measuring out the correct doses for Dr. Watson, Anstice swept up behind him and began rummaging through the counter’s contents.

“How are you, Mademoiselle Holmes?”

“As well as I can be.” she flashed the doctor a brilliant smile. “Are you going to the exhibition when it opens?” The city of Marseille was hosting the first of its kind L’Exposition Coloniale. According to the newspapers, it was to be a grand fair representing all the cultures and societies of the French Empire; myriad peoples surrounded by their goods, food, music, dancing, and language. Some people insisted that it was a selfish display, as though the Marseilles council was begging for the other European powers to attack.

“Mary is ecstatic about the fair. She’d likely have a fit if we didn’t make an appearance!” Dr. Watson laughed. “Will either of you be there?”

“I was thinking about taking Mrs. Hudson one of the days, but it all depends really…” Anstice remarked, leaning over Sherlock’s work to make a quick notation in the ledger. The scowl that bloomed on Sherlock’s face at the minor correction was the only evidence to his irritation. Half a second later, the expression was gone and he laid a hand on his sister’s shoulder. Anstice’s gunmetal gaze flickered up as she re-dipped the pen’s nib.

“I completed the tonic this morning.” He began simply. The pen clanked into its holder.

“Did you test it?”

“Yes.”

“Cross-referenced the results with the original formula?”His reply was an incredulous stare (meant to put in not uncertain terms that she was not assisting the inconspicuousness of it all). After a moment, Anstice gasped: "Mon dieu... you've revived it."

As she stared at her brother, her spine straightened to mimic a steel rod. A thunderstruck reverence overtook the young woman. It was a soaking in of what little information was shown on her brother’s figure; a thinly veiled struggle of fascination intermingling with respect and horror. Finally, Anstice’s trance broke and she murmured something in an alien tongue before bustling back to the forming crowd with three vials in her grasp. Sherlock watched her retreating form, then turned back to molding pills.

Only seconds passed before Dr. Watson voiced his curiosity: “Is another Holmes miracle cure in the making?”

“I can’t say for certain.” Sherlock began. “But is looks promising.”

“Judging by Mademoiselle’s reaction, I should say so.” The doctor laughed. “What is its design?”

“The testing is inconclusive as yet; unfortunate but there it is. The aim is treat respiratory ailments.” Sherlock avoided eye contact with the other man. Exact measurements for the drug capsules were crucial. He was not one to go about proving the adage that all drugs were poisons - unless his task required otherwise. He and his sister may practice arts not seen as socially ethical, but the man took his work seriously. The work was everything, drawing the deep line between amicability and black moods. One by one, the freshly formed pills were removed from their molds and dropped into a bottle. After the extended pause, Sherlock straightened himself up and added: “It has the effect of strengthening the lung muscles.”

“Well, I hope it turns out. I cannot express to you what a medicine of that sort would do for this city.”

Dr. Watson said in earnest. The two men chatted lightly until Holmes finally finished his task and passed several labeled and filled bottles to the doctor with a slight nod. Dr. Watson thanked the man before ducking back out into the downpour. In his coat pocket, a vial of warming tonic bounced about (placed there by Anstice) with him none the wiser.

*       *       *   

Anstice wanted desperately to retire to the library, but her brother was holding her hostage in the laboratory. Sherlock wanted to show off his latest discovery, but did not think to prepare a decent flesh sample. For the better part of the last hour, she had been forced to stay as he carefully shaved off the top-most layer of skin from the back of her hand. Sherlock was preparing the sample, delicately and slowly. Meanwhile, Anstice was thinking of how much better a good Bronte or Tolstoy would be. Not that the young woman was adverse to anything bound and printed, but a documentation of Linnaean horticultural sketches did not rank in any realm of enjoyable reading material.

“Sherlock, please hurry this up. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson would appreciate help with dinner -”

“Mrs. Hudson never needs help with dinner.” Sherlock shot her a bluntly reprimanding glance.

Anstice sighed, muttering under her breath. “Doesn’t rule out that she’d like some assistance…”

“This procedure would go much more quickly if you refrained from whining, my dear sister.”

                Exhaling audibly, Anstice slumped forward onto the desk. Her face stayed concealed by her arms as Sherlock merely scoffed but continued the tedious task. Anstice could feel her brother’s annoyance radiating, wafting from across the table. Restless minutes dripped past. Finally, Anstice made from the store front. She reappeared with the two flimsy black notebooks, one of which was the use-marred one Mrs. Hudson had brought down that morning. She let the leather slap against the table top, the sound making her brother flinch (and hopefully upsetting the project).

Thus began the tedious time-waster of restructuring lists of clients, addresses, methodologies, and venues. Anstice wrote in her most complex script, assisted by her classical Latin. Keeping these secret ledgers was just a piece of the elaborate web the Holmes siblings kept up. All in order to keep their documentation, they rewrote the ledgers in discrete notebooks every few months in a different language, penmanship style, ink type and once with alternate names for every customer; all for the sake of secrecy. Neither Anstice nor Sherlock had intended to get into the assassin’s occupation.

It had been an accident. By the fourth month of their business, the doctors of Marseille trusted the siblings enough to invite them to hospital bedsides. Sherlock, not being one for sickbeds, had good-naturedly shooed Anstice to the ministry. An older man had been recovering from a stroke but was experience odd pains. As to who’s fault it was remains unclear; Anstice was the less experienced of the two and Sherlock had not finished her tutoring, but the man declared that he would not go near the hospital doors. There was also an argument about Sherlock refusing to give his sister advice on treatment, but the fact was generally neglected. The man had passed away after experiencing a high fever attributed to infection. Only later did Sherlock inspect Anstice’s remedy, finding it heavily comprised of ricin-like compounds.

“Your patience is not in vain, dear sister.” Sherlock announced, striding over to take a seat across from her. The woman raised her head, an expression of frustration-infused boredom imbeded in her delicate features. He placed a small dish a few centimeters from the ledger. In the dish lay a near translucent patch of skin, still pink from dots of transdermal blood Like a magician, Sherlock held up the vial of La Cantarella and let the mercurial bronze liquid shine in the light. Anstice motioned for him to move on, earning herself a glare. Still, Sherlock twisted a glass pipette in his fingers before dipping the filling end into the Cantarella.

One, two, five tiny drops fell into the dish, covering the sample until Midas’ daughter seemed the likely donor.

Anstice’s boredom again pressed at her temples and forced her attentions elsewhere. Picking the skin at her nail beds aided in keeping the illusion that time was passing faster. Pinpricks of blood began pooling in the crevices next her cuticles; the dull thrum of heartbeat was audible at the very back of her eardrum. Another epoch could have passed them by, but the experiment decided to finally react. Faint sizzling, popping and fizzing overcame pulmonary resonances. Metallic scents, less smells and more tastes stuck in the back of one’s throat, rose and Anstice demurely coughed and gagged at the copper penny lodged behind her tongue.

Sherlock let the experiment and sensation progress. When he deemed it the right time, the man picked up a pair of tweezers - previously laid discarded on the table - and extracted the remnants of Anstice’s skin. Like a fragile fragment of ancient parchment, Sherlock delicately placed the derma on a clean dish where a few drops of water revealed the scrap to be near disintegration. He leaned back in his chair and observed his sister’s reactions with proud airs. Now, he could relish the swelling accomplishment fully.

Anstice’s steel grey eyes grew large, her head lifting up as if compelled by a string. Petal pink lips parted to suck in a surprised breath.

                “My god, Will…” she whispered. “What have we done?”

Sherlock stared at her, letting a teasing smirk enter his expression. “Dear sister, you make it sound so ghastly.”

                “Clearly you didn’t get the same impression I did. What, pray tell, did this experiment tell you?” Under her breath, she added: “Other than your mind for the macabre…”

Her brother frowned. How could she not be impressed by this? An experiment in her mind, but to Sherlock was paramount leap forward. He had just revived a four-hundred year old poison, long to be thought of as extinct or mythical. Still unclear was whether or not Anstice had just blatantly insulted him.

                “I think this is referred to as ‘making exceptional progress for science and history’.” The man shot back venomously. “Truthfully you wouldn’t know anything about that, Anstice. Acqua Toffana is only a mix of arsenic and lead mixed in whatever cosmetic one desires. La cantarella is much more complicated; takes real intellect, genius even.”

                “To each their own definition of demonic.” Anstice shrugged. At that moment, she did not have the compulsion or mental strength to argue. From a very young age, they had been keen to use their gifts of verbal sparring. Both could spit out barbs whenever they liked. When Sherlock and Anstice were in the confines of testy moods, the youngest generally let her irritation roll off like water off duck feathers. Especially when the time was nearing nine o’clock, Anstice figured Mrs. Hudson would not take kindly to a shouting match during her reading time.

                “How traceable is la cantarella?” Anstice sighed. _Get all possible information for the sake of business,_ she told herself.

Sherlock’s increasingly bad mood seemed to diminish.“No more than any of our other methods. I imagine it’s probably less so, considering the last users died in the Renaissance.”

                “When are you going to… premier it?”

                “Did you not look at the letter I gave you?” Sherlock adopted a disappointed facade as his sister struggled for an answer. “Read it now, then! Honestly woman, I don’t need to tell you everything!” Obediently, Anstice reached into the pocket of her skirt and removed the heavy stationery, folded in half twice and resealed by the Holmes family insignia (a little habit of her brother’s, meaning he had read it and insuring it wouldn’t be picked over). Cracking the blue wax, Anstice exhaled and began to read.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_It seems as though I have found myself in a position that requires your assistance. You may know the name Sebastian Wilkes; the two of us used to be business partners until we experienced a fatal falling out a month ago. I took the reins of our venture, but that has since deepened the divide. Upon his rehiring into the financial sector, Wilkes has begun a blackmailing campaign against me. I’d rather preserve my anonymity in this matter. If you would help me, I will send along a cheque after the deed is done. Direct communication will cease with this letter. Take the job at your leisure and interest. I’d rather a professional handle this but am willing to take matters into my own hands should you be disinterested._

_Much appreciated,_

_A friend and admirer_

Below, an address and name were inscribed: _Sebastian Wilkes, 517 Rue Sylvabelle, Marseille_. Anstice read through the correspondence twice. Letting out a resigned breath, she slid the paper across the table to Sherlock, still relaxed into his chair but seeming now haughtier. Rising from her chair, Anstice calmly re-pinned her curls and straightened her blouse. Sherlock allowed a curt nod - permission to leave granted - and the young woman swiftly departed.

Reaching the stairs, she tossed over her shoulder: “Omnibus in plenitudine temporis nihil.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you for reading! In terms of logistics, yes the chapters will always be this long... I'm sure there are stories with longer, but these are unusual for me! Just a bit of information on the events and places - for learning's sake.
> 
> Coloniale Exhibition de Marseille was the first colonial exhibition held in France, running from April 15th to November 18th 1906. The colonial exhibitions are considered by some to be the pre-cursors to the modern World's Fair. It hosted 1.8 million visitors of varying nationalities, entertained by over fifty pavilions and palaces built to represent countries with in the French empire (Cambodia, Martinique, French Guiana, Algeria, etc.). 
> 
> Noailles, nicknamed "the belly of Marseille", is a popular neighborhood that still has a daily market. The market itself was started by the Capuchin order, who established a monastery on land granted by Catherine de Medici (fun fact). The Noailles has the largest immigrant population of Marseille, likely stemming from the neighborhood's popularity with wealthy merchants during the latter half of the 19th century (not totally sure on that last, so don't quote me).
> 
> La Cantarella was "a slightly sweet white powder that could be slipped into wine or food. It is thought to have been a combination of arsenic, phosphorus, and lead acetate, also known as lead sugar" (Posion: An Illustrated History, Joel Levy, page 78). It was a favorite, and likely and invention of the Borgia family of Italy. Granted, historical accounts of the poison vastly differ from how I am choosing to portray it. It is merely a bout of artistic license, I assure you.
> 
> Any questions, feel free to ask them. I would love to answer them. Thank you for your readership and I promise to update soon!  
> Best,  
> Carie


	3. High Society

By the end of the week, Sherlock had secured two tickets to take Anstice to see an play: _La Tosca_. It was set to be performed by a national troupe out of Nantes, in lieu of La Pivone Rouge’s private assembly. In the wake of Irene Adler’s tragic and untimely demise, the company had proclaimed a month of mourning (as substitutes traipsed across their stage disguised as Floria Tosca, Colometti, and Riene Maria Carolina). A week and a half earlier, the actors and actresses were excitedly preparing for _La Boheme_. This evening, the collection of seventeen had gathered with Ms. Adler’s grieving fiance at her townhouse for yet another half-lighted vigil.

It had all been in the newspaper Martha Hudson read religiously, _Le Journais_. The old lady couldn’t help but think how horrible it was for such a young, vibrant girl to be picked off for no reason. Of course, she could not recall viewing a single production in which Ms. Adler performed. It was still no reason for Marseilles police to all but publically give up on the investigation. The lead inspector, Detective Gregory Lestrade, had released a statement on the department’s behalf. The five or six sentences only served to illustrate their firm belief that the case was unsolvable and not worth more than the effort already expended.

Either way, the show must go on - or at least that was what Martha’s niece had told her when she visited last. Ms. Emanuel Cleaver, like Ms. Adler, was an opera soprano. She was currently living in America and had come to Marseille to see her aunt during a vocal exhibition. The Holmeses were kind enough to let the young woman stay in their home; Anstice had taken a liking to her and they occasionally sent each other letters. The whole stay, Emanuel had been more than smitten with Sherlock, his impromptu violin concerts and unfailing intellect. Sherlock (on the other hand) had not known what to make of the doe-eyed, anxious brunette and her peculiarly archaic French.

Saturday evening, Sherlock had spent an hour wearing out the violin’s strings. The man, already funny enough, did not appreciate patience and waiting for Anstice to descend the stairs was purgatorial. The man paced, hummed, picked catgut strings, raked agitated fingers through his sooty-black hair and all but [lept over the furniture] as time elapsed. Martha sat in with him, sipping tea and reading the English evening paper Sherlock managed to find for her; the eye of a whirling, [tetchy] storm. So caught up in his self-made irritation, he would have ignored Anstice’s presence had she not touched his arm.

                “What a fine thing that is, dear.” Martha smiled, commenting on Anstice’s gown. The older woman recognized it as one of Cyrille’s. The older-styled gown had been modernized by Anstice’s miniscule, light stitching; if Martha hadn’t known it was the young woman’s mother’s, she would have thought it brand new. Smiling demurely, Anstice twirled around, letting the deep blue velvet skirt petal out. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock retrieved their coats and helped his sister into hers. She flashed him an overtly adoring grin, one that forced her eyes to sparkle and cheeks to flush in a most disingenuous manner. It point blank said ‘you love me because I am your sister’.

                Martha laughed lightly at the pair. They had acted this way since as far back as she could remember. The young man could be abrasive to the young woman whenever he desired. Anstice had learned to take the moods with a grain of salt. Every month or so, one would snarl at the other, a cacophonous altercation would break out for ten minutes, and then the universe would be realigned. Martha, for all her pride in the siblings, would consider herself a fool to deny that they still were children. She guided them to the front door with a gentle hand, wishing them a good night - a sentiment returned in words by Anstice and a curt nod from Sherlock. Allowing herself another chuckle, Martha settled into her newspaper in the parlor.

*          *           * 

                Anstice stood by her brother’s arm as they sipped wine, strains of the orchestra tuning spilling out into the lobby every time an attendant opened the door. Anstice had taken to watching them flit about the patrons, nimble and polite mice, in their starched suits with small red flowers pinned to the lapels. Neither she nor Sherlock spoke, save for the occasional deduction of prominent Marseillan figures (all of which were dismantled to embarrassing proportions).  Sherlock scanned the people milling about; according to his inquiries, Mr. Sebastian Wilkes was a bachelor - and a very open one at that. Prospects were set that the man would never marry but continue his trail of haphazard flings with unsuspectingly innocent and perfectly scandalous women. Wilkes frequented theaters and music halls in order to sweet-talk available socialites.

                All the more reason for Sherlock to escort his beautiful and charming (not to mention unmarried) younger sister around Marseille’s social watering holes. The more the young woman let her eyes wander casually over the lobby’s fixtures, the more she was beginning to attract the eyes of several men. In her peripheral, Anstice caught the fleeting, frequent glances directed to her by Sebastian Wilkes’ extremely particular eye. She tried her hardest to ignore the leering - it could not be described as anything less.

                “How do you plan on slipping him the serum?” Anstice asked in muted tones, leaning closer to her brother. The dark-haired man didn’t answer, but merely smiled with the distinct impression of instilling patience in a child. Anstice exhaled heavily. Nothing was ever revealed before Sherlock accomplished what he was meaning to (even if it was a certain degree of aggravation). It was a stubborn habit he’d developed in childhood, and one that the other Holmes children despised. With Sherlock in full control of the situation, Anstice was required to play along and pray he wouldn’t spring pseudonyms on her. She’d be sunk if she couldn’t come up with a name better than Anna or Gabrielle (Sherlock reminded her how there could “only be so many Annies and Gabbys in the world”).

                “Sherlock Holmes.” A boisterous sounding voice called. In a second, Anstice watched her brother’s face contort from artful boredom to pained enthusiasm. His hand was suddenly on her arm, turning her to the lobby as he took several steps forward.

                Sebastian Wilkes had finally decided to approach the siblings. According to a little inquiry through the police, the man was a banker and looked it: his black tuxedo seemed to shine with newness and was tailored to his taller, subtly muscular frame. His tawny colored hair was neatly fixed and the cologne he wore smelled as though it cost no less than two hundred Francs. Anstice frowned slightly as Sherlock politely greeted Wilkes. In all truth, money was her least favorite of topics. The Holmes family was dynastic and influential with the perks of a substantial monetary horde. These days there was a deepening divide between old and new money. Sebastian Wilkes was new money; Anstice had refashioned her mother’s gown.

                The men had taken up discussing business, mostly revenue and inventory. Wilkes was more fascinated with how the youngest offspring of absolute wealth had come to spend their time running a pharmacy. Anstice had not been paying attention until then; questioning their livelihood sent a strange defensive spark through her spine.

                “You could’ve entered into any industry, any venture you pleased, and made a fortune!” Wilkes exclaimed in disbelief. “I bet you don’t even have to work; you could be travelling, Holmes! Yet, you devote your days to mixing cures for any little ill and irrational old woman could come to you with. How on earth do you rationalize it?”

                “Our mother was always fascinated with medicinal herbs, so it turned into our childhood hobby.” Anstice chirped before Sherlock could, earning her the attention of both men. “We ended up with better solutions than the masses of distasteful tonics, so starting the business seemed the natural end. It’s turned out quite well, wouldn’t you agree Sherlock?”

                “Absolutely.” Relief glimmered faintly in her brother’s hard stare. “Sebastian, allow me to introduce my sister, Anastasia. She’s truly the reason why we have become so popular and efficient.” Anstice gave a small curtsey, shooting her brother a warning glare. Of course, he would feel the need to call her something so mildly different.

                “It is a pleasure, Mademoiselle Holmes.” Wilkes said, lifting her hand to brush a kiss along the back. Appropriately, the woman smiled and forced a little blush.

                “The pleasure is all mine, Monsieur Wilkes.” She replied in her most demure tone. The man let his gaze fall upon Anstice’s features in the most politely predatory spirit. She continued, ignoring his hungry stare. “What brings you to the opera this evening?”

The man replied vaguely to the question - probably close to showing a business partner all the popular venues. Anstice and Sherlock simply smiled, participating half-heartedly in the act. Wilkes acted more arrogant than Sherlock did in a foul mood and had not noticed the vacant, uninterested expressions of the Holmeses. Between the trio, there existed a tacit understanding of Wilkes’ real motives for choosing _La Tosca_. It was no secret to Marseille’s high society that Sebastian Wilkes had a fondness for the young women from the United States and England that tended to flood the city before the summer season, fresh from finishing school. Lately, the man did not appear to be hiding the fact. People of the Holmeses’ station, however, afforded each other niceties to save face.

The conversation gradually migrated to the little pleasantries - novels, music, and L’Exhibition Coloniale. The whole of Marseille was holding a collective breath for the success of the fair. For there, the spent a mere minute or two on politics and foreign affairs. Anstice insisted they move on for sheer lack of riveting new stories.

Every now and again, Sherlock would play with his glass of wine - swirling it and testing the angular velocity of the red liquid. Sebastian began doing the same for several, minute-long spans; a few times, he placed his champagne flute on the grand staircases’ newel and ignored it amidst the conversation. Sherlock once reached for Anstice’s glass, which she refused to let him take. Instead, he let his fingers trail atop her hand until it reached her garnet and onyx inlaid lid of her pillbox ring. That was what Anstice referred to the trinket as in polite company.

It was the funeral ring her Aunt Tatienne had gifted her at Cyrille Holmes’s passing; she usually kept an aspirin tablet in the compartment, but she now understood what was in it this evening. Out of shock, Anstice gapped unabashed at her brother, amazed at his audacity. Sherlock had taken the piece she used to commemorate her mother and had hidden the tools of a trade the woman would have despaired over endlessly. Anstice was trapped, as she often found herself, in a state of anger and awe. It was a volatile mix that swam in her brain and made her want to gush about her brother’s simple brilliance or do away with him all together. Feeling a burn rising in her cheeks, Anstice corrected herself and relinquished her glass of wine to her left hand. Sherlock placed his hand over her’s for a second time and discretely loosened Anstice’s ring until it dropped silently into his palm.

*               *                 *

                The doorbell sounded throughout the empty halls of [address] like the bells of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Martha started at the noise; she’d been heavily absorbed in the gossip for the last half hour and was expecting anything but a visitor. Slowly for the sake of her pained hip, she rose and strode to the front door, beyond which stood a man about Anstice’s age. He was dressed in a fashionable, expensive suit and overcoat. The hat he lacked left way for neatly kept black hair to be displayed. His expression was perfectly friendly, albeit a little funny.

                “I apologize for the late hour, madame. Is either Sherlock or Anstice in?”

                Martha was a touch taken back by his zeal. “I’m afraid they’ve gone out for the evening. Are you a friend?”

                “A bit - an old school acquaintance, really.” The man held out a long, good quality envelope to the older woman, who eyed it suspiciously but took it anyway. “The probably won’t remember me, but if you would be so good as to pass this on to them, I would be very grateful.”

                “I am more than happy to do that, monsieur.” She smiled warily, hand already on the doorknob.

                More calmly, the man said: “My name’s Richard Brook. Have a good evening, madame.”

                “You as well.” The man snapped back to his erratic self, giving Martha an overly-enthused nod. Monsieur Cortland departed into the light drizzle. It wasn’t as warm as April usually was for Marseille, but Martha still stood on the threshold and watched the man’s form blend into the dark street.

When she could no longer make him out, Martha Hudson strode back to the parlor and discarded the envelope on Sherlock’s desk. His violin lay outside its case, too close to an open inkwell for the lady’s comfort. The man had a habit of leaving the instrument laying about for extended periods. He also hated putting it away. So, Martha lay the time-worn violin in its case but left the lid open.

*                 *                  *

The theater matron called for the beginning of the first act. Anstice tried to focus on the half-formed notes instead of Wilkes’ empty champagne flute. Patrons ambled towards the doors, out of which the orchestra’s tuning exercises flooded and bloomed against Anstice’s eardrums.

                “Good to see you again, Holmes.” Wilkes shook Sherlock’s hand rougher than the man was probably expecting. The man then lowered his gaze appraisingly to Anstice. “It was a pleasure to meet your sister as well.”

                Anstice smiled softly, deeply contradicting her tight-sounding speech. “As was I to make yours, Monsieur Wilkes.”

                With a final suggestive nod, Sebastian Wilkes bade them good night and strode back to his colleagues. The champagne flute had been abandoned at the counter; Anstice found herself staring at the glass again. Sherlock caught her attention with a soft shove to the shoulder and escorted her into the theater after offering his arm. Her eyes vacantly scanned the crowd for something else to latch on to. Her evening was on the cusp of being ruined by the stupid glass. In her forced distraction, she failed to register her brother slipping the funeral ring back onto her hand. He let out a sharp exhale, telling her he could read her thoughts like an open book.

                “Ana, do not tell me you feel remorse.” He whispered, showing her to a seat.

                “I do not… I am only thinking.” Anstice paused for a breath as she took her seat. They were seated in a secluded balcony with two other couples (a privilege when one knew the right people) - Anstice recognized a dark-haired, stern-faced pairing as a Hungarian count and countess. The other couple were opportunistic friends of the prime minister. Anstice and Sherlock occupied the lowest rung of the ladder; it made Anstice acutely aware of every move she made.She glanced sideways at her brother.

“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us, Sherlock?” The lights were beginning to settle in the theater, dimming on the patrons. Sherlock did not turn towards his sister, but leaned in - an action barely noticeable in the half-light.

“It crosses my mind every so often.” He admitted in a whisper. The orchestra was starting up, filling the theater with a low vibration like humming. “Not so much wrong as unorthodox. We function somewhere above the plane of the rest of humanity.”

A kind of horror welled up in Anstice’s chest. “Are you saying we’re gods?”

Sherlock wasn’t one for assuming prestige over anyone. If something was not deemed necessary for their work, the man would often opt to forego it. Lording over one’s equals, superiors, or customers did not constitute as vital. The curtain was rising from the black velvet puddle on the stage, chains and rigging rattling from behind as it crept skywards inch by inch. The painted beauty of a Roman summer was exposed like a strip tease, but the happy scene only further implanted the sickening feeling in Anstice’s stomach. How could the show go on when she had not moved beyond Sherlock’s implication?

A hand fell softly on Anstice’s, picking it up and stroking the back with its thumb. In the darkness, she felt the closeness of her Sherlock’s breath, lips a mere centimeter from the tender skin of her neck. She stiffened at the proximity, trying to pull back to a comfortable distance without anyone but her knowing.

“Maybe we are, dear sister.” He murmured. The words immediately made Anstice feel like a sinner.

 

_April 1st 1906_

_Yesterday evening saw another untimely demise at a Marseille Theater. La Pivone Rouge has become the latest venue for the socially up and coming to drop dead. Last night’s victim, Sebastian Wilkes, was a notorious bachelor and banker with promising prospects. The Englishman resided in our fine city for the last three years to assist with the main bank’s system renewal, being the man communicator between the French and English sectors. He was best known for his fondness of the softer sex, as well as many ensuing interludes. Wilkes’s body was found on La Pivone Rouge’s lavatory floor, having suffocated in a most grisly way. Doctors at Saint Agatha’s Hospital have told this reporter that Wilkes’s chest bore significant bruising. Witnesses from the theater claim the man only had champagne and spent the time before the performance -_ La Tosca _\- conversing with Sherlock and Anstice Holmes. Neither of the local sibling-pharmacists could be reached for comment._

_Catherine Riley, 1906_

                Sherlock was poring over the letter Mrs. Hudson received from Richard Brook at breakfast the following morning. Whatever it contained held his undivided attention, settling the table of three into an impenetrable silence. Of course, Anstice was used to the silence of him scanning newspaper articles because there would reliably be the occasional question. Breakfast was never a whole silence, with the exception of that day. The lack of noise troubled the young woman in a way that she had not experienced in a long while. Her skin crawled like sheets overcome by bedbugs, forcing her to the most unladylike activity: fidgeting.

                Mrs. Hudson had read the notice of Sebastian Wilkes’s death aloud as she and Anstice cooked. The woman had declared, loudly, that the banker had absolutely been murdered - just like Irene Adler - and that the police would come knocking in no time. The lamenting had carried on into the dining room, where Sherlock had been waiting. He had successfully calmed the older woman by explaining that Wilkes was a friend of the eldest Holmes child, Edmund, and venture capital was the only business they discussed.

Anstice knew the latter half was true, but she could not divorce herself from the jittering nerves that plagued for the first time since adolescence. She had not felt this nervous even when she had accidentally given the old man the incorrectly measured pills. Mrs. Hudson had missed an even bigger problem: public suspicion was one hundred percent more damning than any inkling doubt in the back of a police inspector’s mind. If one of Marseille’s many gossips took Catherine Riley too seriously, it would mean the end of the Holmes’s social standing.

Eventually, Anstice couldn’t help her anxiety any longer: “Who’s the letter from?”Sherlock glanced up, a questioning eyebrow arched. Anstice sounded on the cusp of hysteria - clipped speech, twirling ankle and unsettled body. The image of her never preoccupied by anxiety was slowly unraveling into illusion. His hand, seemingly of its own command, sent the letter across the table.

“A prospective first-time customer.” Sherlock answered. “He doesn’t say much, this Richard Brook, but he does request an audience with us. His associate, a Mr. Calvin Villenueve, may join him.”

Anstice nodded quickly. “Is the audience sometime soon?”

“Today, ten minutes before normal closing time.” Sherlock studied the younger woman’s reaction. Her face blanched further than the bloodless pallor displayed that morning. Surprisingly, her shoulders relaxed visibly.  The man had made it a rule not to delve too deeply into the actions of women, specifically his sister. Having spent a concentrated amount of time in convivial circumstances with Mrs. Hudson and Anstice, Sherlock learned that all their heads were filled with convictions too tangled for him to be interested. If was so inclined to pick through the jumbled thoughts, he found himself more susceptible to unnecessary yelling.

Anstice appeared visibly lost in her thoughts, totally oblivious to her fingers worrying the tablecloth. She seemed only half-way prepared to open the pharmacy; hair relieved of its habitually tight style and clearly not wearing shoes, going by the way she strode into the kitchen. Against his better judgement, Sherlock ordered Anstice to straighten herself up before meeting him in the shop.

She was battling back nerves and a choking fear that continued to beat at her senses and judgement. If the woman was in any way harboring feelings of guilt, Sherlock wouldn’t have seen it. He had never known his sister to show guilt over anything - not once in the last two years as they sharpened their trade. His own senses were dulled to the signs in her person. Maybe she didn’t recognize it in herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I hope you enjoyed this installation and the story on whole. By the little introductions of characters in this chapter, I hope you have gotten an idea about where I'm headed with this - and if you didn't, that's more than perfectly fine. You will experience the best shock factor!  
> Regardless, I realize this chapter is a rough-chop, but if you have any questions at all please please ask! Teaching is a career I have been considering and I think it's a damned shame if anyone misses out. All questions are important! That was a strange PSA. I hope I've gotten me point across.  
> Thanks dearly,  
> CLE


	4. Rachel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All is [partially] revealed...

                Mr. Richard Brook was not the same man Martha Hudson had spoken with a day earlier, at least not in personality. This man - the same man - was more reserved, held his shoulders stiffly like the Swiss Guard. The friendly demeanor was still intact, as was the handsome face, but an element of vibrancy was lost. Martha was helping Anstice straighten up the drawing room when the doorbell sounded in the hall. Anstice, who had been putting away Sherlock’s violin, nearly dropped the instrument case when Cortland was led in. The flustered expression on Anstice’s face made the older woman’s heart jump.

                Martha Hudson remembered the late Mrs. Holmes’s laments about her daughter’s lack of interest in romantics. This moment would have made the woman proud - Anstice Cornelia Holmes was favoring with the charismatic Richard Brook. Martha’s hopes of the girl finding happiness with a man outside of her brother skyrocketed.

                “Mrs. Hudson, I think we’re going to talk business now.” Sherlock began gently. “We wouldn’t want you to be bored, but you are welcome to -,”

                “No, no, dear. I’ll just pop out to the market and finish a few errands.” She admonished the man with a motherly touch. Martha bid all three of the young people a good afternoon - smiling pointedly at Anstice - before vacating to the kitchen. There was no reason why she could not begin preparing the cold parts of dinner.

                Sherlock turned back to Richard Brook with an empty expression’ one he usually adopted during arrangements customers. It was a facade that affected the rest of his body by stiffening his shoulders, forcing his back ramrod straight and adopting an intensely scrutinizing stare. Sherlock had his way of weeding out the serious customers from the emotionally-charged; one never wanted to make arrangements on behalf of the flighty.  Anstice softened her presence, especially around men, and transformed into the flowering debutante that her mother so wanted her to be. That evening, she was a delicate stretch of morning sky in her robin’s egg blue dress. No longer were her grey irises jarringly cold, but dove-colored and inviting. Brook watched her approvingly from across the coffee table.

                “Monsieur Brook, how can we  be of service to you?” Sherlock began. Brook smiled vaguely and adjusted his gaze to meet the other man’s. Briefly he rummaged through his coat and extracted a piece of paper. With a quick nod, he passed it to Anstice.

                “Before I tell you why I’ve come to your little operation, I figure I must a little favor of you all.” Richard began. “I need to know you are as excellent as your references claim. Hopefully, Mr. Holmes, you are not adverse to proving your masterful skills.”

                “Not at all.” Sherlock nodded, adding. “Although, I would say my sister might be better up to the task than I.” Brook gave a now thoroughly confused Anstice an appreciative glance. All she could do was flash an uncomfortable half-smile.

               “Have either of you heard of Sebastian Wilkes?” Brook began again, continuing only when he was pleased with their affirmations. “He wasn’t the only crooked banker in Marseille. His apprentice is a young man called Edward Van Coon, and by my estimate he will be just as corrupt as his predecessor. If either one of you do away with Van Coon, I will know you are serious about your undertakings.”

               The conversation was put on pause for a few moments while the siblings considered the proposition. Anstice was the first to speak: “Do you have a preference of methodology or is this an ‘any means necessary’ business?”

                Brook mulled this over. “My only stipulation is the affair should be public and dramatic. A real front page of the newspapers kind of material.”

                “Making a scene and getting away with it would prove our skills as being unrivaled…” Sherlock mused, drawing the other two pairs of eyes to him. A small smirk pulled at the man’s lips, pleased with Brook’s challenge and lack of idiocy. Normally, Anstice could get a decent read of her brother’s position or mood during audiences. She had been trying unsuccessfully to pin something down, but only his appreciation of this customer was displayed on his body. Anstice bit the inside of her lower lip, rolling the flesh between her incisors. Sherlock had a tendency to get testy when questioned about his reasoning and she dreaded having to bring it up with him later that evening.

                “Monsieur Brook,” Sherlock said at last. “My sister and I would be more than happy to take on your request.” He had relaxed into his chair and was twisting a pencil (produced from his jacket) absent-mindedly in his fingers. “I don’t imagine you’d like to be more forthcoming about your need to remove Van Coon?”

                “The patient are always rewarded, Monsieur Holmes.” Brook answered wryly. Feeling the conversation reach its finale, Anstice donned the guise of ‘lady of the house’ and rose from her seat. Both men followed suit, shook hands and nodded their good-byes. At Sherlock’s pointed glance, Anstice lead Richard Brook to the front door, leaving her brother in the sitting room.

                “Madame Holmes,” Brook began at the threshold.

                “Sherlock is my brother, monsieur.” Anstice quickly corrected. “I am still ‘mademoiselle’.” Her little lark-laugh, hastily added to the end, was a poor excuse for lightheartedness. Brook had either not noticed or was too polite to let on what he had picked up.

                “My mistake, _mademoiselle_ ,” He restarted. “Your brother mentioned implied that your talents superseded his own.”

Anstice flushed. “Don’t take it to heart; he simply enjoys touting our business.”

“No, I will take it to heart. I am a man who strives to appreciate artistry and mastery. I would like you to carry out another matter for me, on another’s behalf. Does the name Constance Prince mean anything to you?”

“The author of those books on being model women?”

“Precisely, mademoiselle.” Brook nodded. “She is about to announce some nasty business about her closest relative that he’d rather not be in the hands of the public.” A small, more vicious smile took the place of friendlier one. Anstice used this as cue to dissolve her demure façade.

“He’d like her to remain silent?”

“As the grave… You have no objections, do you?”

“None, monsieur. Would you like it to be a quieter event? An innocuous overdose or illness?”

“We speak the same language, Mademoiselle Holmes.” Anstice softened at the compliment, a slight melting that did not go unnoticed by Brook. A pride swelled in her chest – she had made her own dealing. No doubt, Sherlock would see it all over her and pester her, but to no avail. In that moment, Sherlock was the furthest thing from her mind. Two things had taken his place: the all-consuming nerves that this separate task might cure and the well-mannered man who expressed in no uncertain terms that her skill was doubtless. For Richard Brook, it seemed that Anstice was more than willing to agree.

“We will be in contact, monsieur.” Anstice finished with a tiny curtsey. Brook placed a kiss on the back of her hand and silently departed.

 

Catherine Riley stared at Andrew Dimmock, beyond dumbfounded. For the last year, the man had been her first source for all the criminal happenings of Marseille; allowing her to look at confidential reports, chances in policy and the juiciest tidbits of court transcripts. Every month or so, Catherine would run a small column on the crime rate in the city. It was baseline statistics – popular kinds of homicide, thievery, and the numbers that gave citizens something to fear or be thankful for. She was sure Dimmock allowed this kind of security breach because they had been seeing each other, but she’d like to think it was for other reasons.

Neither of them knew what to make of March’s numbers, which showed a dramatic uptick in poisoning deaths. Many of those had been ruled accidental in the way sailors forgot to let a ship breath for a few days after fumigation or green wallpaper could kill infants in dreadful summer heat. The ones that caught Catherine’s eye were the unexplained and cases with too-neat wrap ups. Constance Prince had dropped dead a week earlier at 40 years old of a morphine overdose, despite claims she had been off the stuff for a year. A Belgian doctor had taken cantharides – the burning Spanish fly-beetle, thought to be an aphrodisiac – and had died in the very hospital he was lecturing. Then, of course, there were the mysterious events around Irene Adler, Sebastian Wilkes, and Edward Van Coon. They had no reason to die, unless someone very much wanted them dead. Still, the number seemed unnaturally high to the reporter’s untrained senses.

“Are you _sure_ this is correct, Andrew?” Catherine pressed in an urgent whisper. All of these younger people, dropping like flies… something had to be amiss in the paperwork.

                “Miss Ri -,” Dimmock paused, cleared his throat, then began again. “Kitty, I promise you this is all real. Lestrade approved it himself and the morgue accounts are exactly the same. There’s no disputing it.”

The woman digressed into the quiet, trying to sort out how it was possible. She’d reported on many of the suspicious deaths over the years working for _The Journal_ , which was how she came to meet Andrew. She could vouch for the claim that the better part of the last three months had been more violent than usual. Catherine could not wrap her mind around how all of these pieces fit, but she was convinced there was a common thread. In the span of two weeks, Mademoiselle Adler had collapsed mid-seizures, Sebastian Wilkes had choked on his own vomit, and Edward Van Coon had turned up on a dock with a knife protruding from his spine (despite the coroner’s urgings that he had died from chloroform inhalation).

It was a gruesome work, sorting through the mire of perpetrated death and turning it into something a housewife could digest without fainting. Her editor had offered Catherine plenty of opportunities to back away and pursue an advice column – a more feminine area of the newspaper. She’d turned them all down; her notoriety, her mark, was far more important.

“Andrew,” Catherine began, employing a tenderness she reserved for more private or pressing moments. The arrangement they had – dinner together every so often – allowed for affection now and again. “Do you think any of us are safe?”

“As safe as we want to be, Kitty.” The man sighed, running a rough hand through his hair. Leaning forward, he took the woman’s hands in his. “Don’t let it get to your head, darling. You’re safe.”

 

Richard Brook returned to the Holmes’ business, thoroughly pleased with the notices his associate had found in the evening newspapers. Miss Prince’s demise, lovingly narrated by Mademoiselle C. Riley’s excellent prose, was beautifully executed. Edward Van Coon’s death was pinned on a drunken stabbing, the police totally neglecting the inflamed throat. Richard was well prepared to dole out the compliments to both siblings, but arrived at the pharmacy to only Anstice present. The young woman, who was never less than gracious, welcomed him into the upstairs sitting room. When she excused herself to make up a tea tray, Richard wandered about the room.

 The Holmeses had a fantastic library with shelves intricately carved of dark wood and plenty of books to fill them. Elegantly understated furnishings complimented the space, displays of immaculate taste. In time, he came upon an inconspicuous section of wall. There hung several small frames, many of them easy enough to fit in the palm of his hand. The majority was detailed drawings in watercolor and black lines, but two were photographs. The largest contained a portrait of the man and woman he had met, set rigidly in fastidious poses of royalty but not dressed nearly as fantastically. While attention grabbing, it wasn’t the one that Richard imagined himself remembering.

“A golden oval frame encircled one of the little sketches. The dark hair and facial structure made him sure it was of Anstice. She was otherwise unidentifiable. Her gaze was soul-piercing and dark, a wild element in the innocuous plain of her face. It made the mild-mannered Anstice seem an unrecognizable silvicultrix, like her Scot ancestors. Richard stood, absorbing the ink sketch, still sporting traces of the original pencil. He could not help being possessed by the vision of Anstice as a reckless, beautiful Highland queen of old.

“Enjoying the room, I see.” A soft voice cracked his focus. Richard spun around to see Anstice lowering an aged silver tea tray onto the side table.

“It’s lovely.” Richard answered with an awkward lilt. He straightened up and strode towards the loveseat. Anstice prepared him a cup of tea as per his request, the overly fragrant steam brushing against his face when she handed it to him. The young woman’s hands lingered for a second on his, obviously unintended by the speed of her recoil a beat later. Quickly, she fixed herself a cup and settled into an armchair. The mauve satin damask acted as background for Anstice’s celery green dress; the stark contrast was funny, at least to Brook. The colors went happily together, but made the rest of the woman appear out of place.

“Mademoiselle, are you the only person available to discuss these matters with?” Brook began hesitantly, expecting a volatile reaction. Anstice merely smiled.

“I’m afraid so, Monsieur Brook. Sherlock is out with Mrs. Hudson at the Exhibition this afternoon.” She elaborated, taking a sip of her tea. “Fear not, for everything will get back to him at some point today.” The man before her let an audible breath escape him. Anstice watched him carefully, waiting for his asking to take his leave.

“Mademoiselle Holmes, I would much rather speak exclusively to you.” Brook began again. Anstice nodded and motioned for him to continue. “I am most pleased by your work on Monsieur Van Coon and Madame Prince; especially the latter. How you feigned a morphine dose that masterfully… I assume you used belladonna, for the eyes?”

Anstice visibly blushed and nodded in the affirmative. The hot pink blooms deepened as he carried on complimenting the young lady for a few minutes more. A warm, jittery feeling settled in her chest and made the battle for composure. Not even Mrs. Hudson gave her such extensive praise – but maybe that was because Anstice and Martha had known each other much longer. Finally, her brain forced her to swallow the pride threatening to spill over.

“Mr. Brooks, I appreciate your kind words, but didn’t you have a task following all of this?”

Richard smiled, drinking his tea for a pause between his reply and her words. As a child, he’d fancied becoming an actor. Like most children, the thought of pretending to be someone else was most intriguing. While that choice of occupation had fallen totally by the wayside, it did not diminish his flair for dramatics. Little moments and sounds to add the perfect amount of tension – those over which Richard Brook was an absolute master and knew it. He waited until the young woman began to squirm in anticipation. All Anstice saw was a man savoring a half-decent cup of tea probably not worth the remembrance.

“Right you are, my lady. It concerns a young American woman I was involved with. Until a year ago, at least.” Brook’s voice was light with a conversational lilt. “Lovely thing, but loose in her morals. You’ve seen the kind, mademoiselle. I cut things off but not before we were engaged. She was understanding of my reasons, but her mother is… a bit more outwardly mean spirited. Long story made short, I now have one of Baltimore’s most influential families after me and I need a way out.”

“They ruined your reputation?” Anstice cut in.

“Not even the half of it, mademoiselle.”

Anstice caught the whiff of anger in Brook’s tone. It was seemed sourced in a deep hurt. Tension buzzed in the air between them as Anstice tried to guess what this other woman had done to so injure him. Their silence lasted well over three minutes; the time it took Brook to regain his bearings and Anstice to reorganize her mind’s flitting thoughts. Eventually, Richard Brook centered himself back on a relaxed, albeit unsmiling shape.

“Please excuse my airs, Mademoiselle Holmes.”

“Of course, Monsieur Brook,” Anstice nodded, tacitly accepting the man’s apology. “It seems most trying.”

The man used his drink to center himself further. “I have been in France for three years; new life, perspective, employer. Now, they have the audacity to contact me and threaten it all. My reasons are not missed by you?” Brook asked, imploring the young woman with dark eyes. He sat leaning towards her, elbows on knees.

“ _Oui_ , monsieur. You speak of this matter rather ambiguously. Is there anything more you wish me to know at this time?” The woman, for a moment at least, softened into a loving aura that was more genuine than what she’d before expressed.  It passed through Brook’s mind that she would’ve been a good mother, had she gone that route. Truthfully, Anstice Holmes did not appear the marrying type; a bit aloof and impossibly smart for any man to be worthy of or appreciate. Straightening, Brook swallowed and weakly smiled at her before rifling through his coat pockets. He produced a folded piece of good, thick stationary. He passed it to Anstice, who inspected it for a moment. The creases were sharp, made by a forceful hand, and the paper was beautifully high quality Bohemian. The pads of her fingers traced the wax seal, brain toying with the idea of opening.

“I’ve included everything in that. I wrote it imagining I would  not want to voice every sordid detail to you.” Brook elaborated. Anstice nodded, setting the still-folded note next to her cup and saucer. He added softly, “You are a more than capable woman, Mademoiselle Holmes.”

This shook her. “Are you requesting this woman’s fate be entirely my project? Sir, I assure that my brothe - ,”

“No.” Brook snapped. “I need _you_ to undertake this, Anstice.” He rose, placing his cup on the service tray. Anstice sat stunned; he had never used her first name. The force that backed each syllable startled her, causing a moment-long silence between them. Anstice stood, taking the paper up again. Richard opened his mouth, intent on fiercely apologizing to the woman, but Anstice silenced him with a wave of her hand. Without a hint of reservation, Anstice Holmes stepped close to Richard Brook and placed light hands on his shoulders. Steel blue met russet brown, locked for a mere second as a smile formed on her lips. Richard could feel the depth of reassurance the irises conveyed.

“Monsieur, vous n’avez rien à craindre.” She spoke in a hush that reverberated like thunder. Brook was, pleasantly, trapped.

_You have nothing to worry about…._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUICK NOTE: Thank you for the readership! Hope you all aren't totally confused yet!!! Either way, I am always available for questions (my tumblr is http://orchidscript.tumblr.com), so do please ask them.  
> Ta, darlings!  
> CLE


	5. Unsteady Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monsieur Brook and Mademoiselle Holmes strike a deal.

_Miss Rachel Wilson was the love of my life and the woman I sincerely hoped to marry. I courted her for two years in the most respectable fashion. Admittedly, I was insistent but it was due to my wish to wed before I returned to Europe. She was eighteen to my twenty-one when we first met, but her naivety and age does not excuse her actions. We had been engaged for seven months before I began to suspect her of unfaithfulness. My suspicions were confirmed at a party her parents – Edward and Jennifer – held after New Year’s. I immediately confronted Rachel, an encounter that resulted in our engagement being called off._

_Her parents, especially Jennifer, were unsympathetic as their marriage had been under duress more often than not. Needless to say, Rachel’s and my affair ended unhappily. Since the wedding had already been in the works when the schism occurred, Mrs. Wilson demanded that I repay the money they had spent on her daughter’s extravagant fancies. Of course, I vehemently refused. What would be the purpose of financing something you had not hand in creating? I had no interest in appeasing the Wilsons, so I removed myself from them._

_This did not inhibit them from utilizing their entire social prowess it make to make my life difficult. By the time a month had passed, I had lost my social standing, my work and my savings were on the brink of expiring. Deciding that the United States was no longer worth my misery, I left for Europe. My home in Paris had changed exponentially in the time I was across the Atlantic; either that or my ideals had changed. I found myself in Marseille because a friend offered me a partnership in his business venture. That went splendidly until six months ago – again ensued an argument that erupted in our parting of ways. The man began a blackmailing campaign against me and died under increasingly mysterious circumstances; I believe myself to be in the clear._

_A number of weeks ago, I began receiving letters from a hotel near Toulouse. They were, to a minor degree, threatening and equipped with a host of intimate knowledge regarding myself. It was as if my associate had risen from the grave to continue his efforts against me. The whole affair was more than bizarre to me; then I happened to visit the Exhibition on Wednesday. In the lobby of a participating business, I glimpsed Misses Rachel and Jennifer Wilson chatting happily with a few stiff looking younger gentlemen._

_This is why I have chosen to approach you and your brother, Mademoiselle Holmes. Surely you see the flow of wrongs this young woman had and continues to commit. It would satisfy me greatly to know she died in some sort of pain and publicity. Her mother deserves to hurt as much from the loss as I did from their demonization. I admit to doing my own research, to save you as much trouble as possible. The women are staying at the_ _Étoile d’Argent hotel just off of the water-front. I imagine they have separate, but adjoining rooms, as they were privy to when I knew them. They will be departing immediately at the end of June. Sooner is better than later in this matter._

_Negotiation of a price will occur following the act, but know you will be kindly compensated. I trust your skills whole heartedly._

_Best of luck,_

_Richard Brook_

_*_

“Did you speak with Brook this evening?” Sherlock asked Anstice, who was perched at the foot of his bed. She regularly invaded his room, especially when the need to discuss certain ventures was too great to be procrastinated until morning. Anstice would vanish up to her quarters after dinner, donning her nightshift and kimono. Connecting various rooms throughout the house were slim servants’ passages. Spending many summers in the stately house as curious children led for them to know where each began and ended. The smallest connected the siblings’ rooms; the one Anstice would use to sneak over to avoid running into Mrs. Hudson and receiving a lecture on ladylike behavior. Most nights, Sherlock was still in his dinner clothes, but this evening he had removed his dinner jacket and shoes. Back pressed to the bed’s headboard, he had the small black ledger propped against his knee; pen poised to jot down the best information Anstice could give him.

“I did, yes, but very briefly.” She replied dismissively. It seemed braiding her hair was more important than the work. Sherlock rolled his eyes, quelling a bit of frustration.

“Did he extrapolate on the real job he requires of us?” Sherlock pressed, voice becoming the embodiment tetchiness. She glanced up, eyes becoming a softer gray in the half-light. Her expression was one she had as a child – innocuous and subtly pitying stare that twisted its way around the victim’s heart, working its way out to their little finger. The mother cultivated the little trick in her only daughter, a trick that their father and Mycroft repeatedly fell for and caused Sherlock an immeasurable amount of disdain. Dropping the ledger and pen onto the side table, he swiftly appeared in front of his sister. He yanked her hands from her hair. She stared at him, confused, as he held her wrists in strong hands. She blinked.

“Ana, please do your best to answer the questions.” He said in a stern, hollow-sounding whisper. His sister appeared nonplussed, but her stomach tossed and threatened to spill over.

“If you unhand me, I’d be more than happy to answer you, Sherlock.” Anstice replied in the same dead tone. Their posture remained frozen for more long seconds. Then, Sherlock roughly dropped her hands. He strode to the windows, staring out in malevolence. He was waiting as patiently as possible for Anstice to begin speaking, obviously on edge like a spooked cat. His sister, however, chose to take her time. It was only when he spun back around to berate her did he notice the paper in her hand.

                “He was very vague when speaking, but gave me this as supplement.” She informed as she extended her arm. The letter was in Sherlock’s fingers just as quickly. “It regards one Ms. Rachel Wilson.” Sherlock scanned the writing multiple times. He was convinced he had skimmed over some microscopic nuance in the text that would give way to true depth. None emerged. Anstice had returned to her plaits, idly turning black hair around her knuckles. She visibly started as Sherlock dropped next to her. Tossing the note haphazardly onto the sheets beside him, Sherlock exhaled loudly – clearly frustrated.

                “This shouldn’t be that simple.” He began in a whisper. The volume increased. “I mean, it could not be just vengeance of a scorned lover hell-bent on refusing to repay the antagonist.”

                “If you think it below your skill set, it’s no matter.” Anstice cut in. “Brook specifically asked that I see to the matter myself. Apparently, he deems my work ‘enviable’ and ‘unrivaled’.” The man turned to stare at his sister in his contempt. Her posture was ram-rod straight in defiance and her chin slightly tilted upwards to that jaunty and elitist angle.

                “You’re taking this job?” Sherlock said, surprised.

                This was – inarguably – below both his and Anstice’s defined talents. As far as they knew, they were the only ones benefitting from this ancient kind of entrepreneurship. If his sister had decided she needed to prove her capabilities, something had gone funny in her synapses. Never before had Anstice been anything but daring or forward thinking in her ideas and endeavors. In the past weeks, she had become more conservative about their true livelihood. Though they had been busier in the past month, Sherlock was made to vet the potential customers many more times than necessary. It was annoying, but Sherlock kept thinking he should be more concerned than he was. Was this a last ditch effort to regain confidence in her deadly prowess?

                “I don’t see why not. Profit is profit, yes?”

                “But what is the point if you’re selling yourself short, Ana?”

                “Trust that a well-paying, pleased customer will return to us.” She answered shortly. Sherlock’s eyes had not moved from her face. The expressions had ranged from self-impressed to irritation to (now) exhausted of all coolness. Neither were keen on physical displays of affection. Sherlock made an exception in that movement, wrapping an arm about Anstice’s shoulders and angling himself so as to whisper in her ear. Initially, her shoulders stayed stiff but eventually yielded, relaxing into the touch.

                “Ana, I don’t think you should go this alone. As much as the whole thing bores me, I admit that simplicity is bothersome. Do you remember the agreement we made the first time?”

                Anstice nodded solemnly. “We are caught together or not at all.”

                “Exactly.” In a flash, the tender moment had dissipated. Sherlock rose from the bed and quietly padded about the room, collecting little things – notes, newspaper cutouts. Anstice had gathered up the discarded ledger and Brook’s note; they quietly found their way into Sherlock’s hands. He mentioned something about starting to plan but Anstice was not all there. A strange blankness had consumed her head, leaving a buzzing in its wake like a fly in an empty corridor. Sherlock had settled at his desk and she had laid back on his bed. He would likely be up all night. It was best if she stayed nearby, just in case.

*

                Martha debated whether or not to peek in on the siblings. Anstice and Sherlock had barricaded themselves in the library for the second consecutive day. She had been left to shoo away customers as the store had remained closed in that time. Porcelain dishes appeared and disappeared on their respective trays at mechanical six-hour intervals. The old lady knew Sherlock’s intensity when tracking down information of any kind, but Anstice being similarly absorbed was a rarity. Martha could only imagine that a past brilliance had gone awry and the pair was being kept by the urgent need to mend it. With the old ways, tiny mistakes happened and were perfectly content healing certain people. Sherlock would bury himself away in the library until he had devised a suitable variation.

Two days breathing stale, book-shelved air could wear down the nerves as much as being stuck in one room.

                This maternally-motivated thought is what compelled Martha to rap her knuckles against the solid oak door. After a few moments of strained patience, Martha saw the door open a crack before fully swinging open. Both Sherlock and Anstice stood across the threshold from her, looking weary but strangely content. Their social reservations had clearly come down in the last few days. Anstice’s hair was down in gloriously unacceptable curls. Sherlock had neglected his tie and was sporting a few new ink splotches on his fingers.

                “Mrs. Hudson, bonjour!” Anstice began in a cheerfully frazzled manner. A dizzy, exhausted grin was plastered across her face. Mrs. Hudson did her best to stifle the feelings of unease the scene gave her – even Sherlock was looking pleased to see her.

                “Good morning, both of you.” Mrs. Hudson answered in a friendly (if not wholly concerned) tone. “I was just curious if either of you planned on coming out of this musty room any time soon?” The siblings exchanged a look that didn’t outwardly say anything. Anstice turned away from her brother, blinked, and returned to Mrs. Hudson.

                “I would say we’re just about done, but one can never know.” She started warmly. “You weren’t worried about us, were you? We’ve only been going through finances.”

                Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Never worried, dear, only wondering; I can’t ever know what goes on in your heads. It’s all beyond me, I can assure you.”

                “Some of this is beyond my capacity as well. I was silly enough to put all the papers I couldn’t figure out aside long enough to force Sherlock to help me.” The man, at her words, seemed to be shocked back into his normal self.

                “Yes, you reserve all the boring bits for me…” He mumbled. The old lady felt herself reassured. “It just goes to show how my sister really handles our business.”

                An awkward pause hovered between them. Anstice had pivoted to glare at the man while Mrs. Hudson shifted her weight in discomfort. Her hip had been acting up and she was wondering what argument she would have to mediate nest. The tension never diffused itself.

                “Is there anything else you need from us, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked calmly. She found it funny that he still used that name – there hadn’t been a mister in years.

                Martha returned to her senses. “Oh, yes. Would you two like me to bring up your dinner?”

                “If you wouldn’t mind the stairs.” Sherlock smiled.

*

                “Is that her over there?” Sherlock leant in close to Anstice’s ear, the young woman’s ear was exposed by how her hair was pulled up.  Richard Brook’s minor proposition had come rather opportunistically. The fair runners behind the exhibition had invited all the prominent figures of Marseille to a grand party. It was all for the benefit of enticing the visitors, absolutely, but there was something more prestigious than simply that. The gala would recreated the whole social hierarchy of Marseille in one night. The Holmeses were now officially part of the elite.

                As luck would have it, Mrs. Jennifer and Miss Rachel Wilson were in attendance. Rachel, dressed in the latest fashion, seemed to be constantly surrounded by smitten, determined young men. With her strawberry-blonde waves, charming grin, ringing laugh, and New World sophistication, the young American woman was irresistible. Her mother was a souring presence amidst the gaiety. Her posture remained in the position of a woman who was convinced she should have been queen of a small nation. They had captured quite a little following, including the Holmeses.

               “Would you like to see the photograph again, or do you need constant reaffirmation from me?” Anstice snapped in a hushed tone. It was not done, being overheard sounding unladylike. She had to keep herself strictly in check because this was not the venue to lose one’s temper. If the feelings still lingered at the end of the night, she could properly yell at her brother at home – probably in the store room.

                Sherlock placed a hand over hers as it rested idly on the table. His acknowledgement was a flash of steel-grey irises and nothing more. Exhaling heavily, the dark-haired man set his wine glass down and took up his sister’s hand, playing absent-mindedly with the fingers. A benefit to being the older sibling was that one had ample time to discover all of the other’s preferences and irritations. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing when he squeezed Anstice’s knuckles and began to roll the joints. The burning stare was well worth the swift kick to the ankle he earned. Again, he held out the hand, palm side up.

                “Would you like to dance, mademoiselle?”

                “For what purpose?” Anstice asked skeptically.

                “Entertainment, momentary amusement… take your pick.” He said with a wry tone. Anstice wrestled with the request before cautiously agreeing. When she stood, she transformed into the epitome of sensible womanhood, despite the murderous airs directed at her brother. The pair waltzed with the utmost grace and refinement, ensnaring the attentions of many party-goers. Small smiles of appreciation materialized on the faces of many attendees, accompanying pairs of eyes following the performers – including that of Rachel Wilson.

                Anstice did not notice. Her bad mood was floating away from her like the fabric of her skirts. She remembered that dismal, rainy Sunday when her father had taught all his children how to dance. Mycroft and Sherlock had bickered over which of them would dance with their only sister to no avail; father had paired them up and kept his daughter for his own partner. Anstice could not have been older than six, not yet bored of climbing all over Mycroft as he sat reading. For an hour or more, she and her brothers stepped in haphazard one-two circles. She traded off between her father, Mycroft, and Sherlock, laughing happily whenever Mycroft lifted her high or Sherlock helped her through tiny twirls.

                When the song ended, the dancers applauded the orchestra and Miss Rachel Wilson strode towards the striking couple. Her mother was to wrapped up in a conversation with a lawyer to break away and follow her daughter. As the young American approached, Sherlock was in the midst of complaining the musicians’ variation on a classically perfect pas de deux. Anstice regarded the girl with a polite nod, holding her silence as the man finished his rant.

                “Next time, you should volunteer to perform. I’m sure they would fall over at your brilliance.” Anstice replied in a biting, disparaging tone. The man shot her a stern glare, but ignored her words. Rachel took that moment to intrude.

                “I hope I’m not interrupting.” Her French, while understandable enough, was hampered by a clear New York inflection. “My friend and I were just admiring your dancing. I figured I would tell you as much.” She smiled even more flirtatiously as she reached a hand out. “Rachel Wilson.”

                “Pleasure,” Sherlock interceded, shaking the proffered hand. “Sherlock Holmes; this is my wife, Anastasia.” Rachel’s demeanor dampened, but her innate persistence lived on. Anstice’s surprised, annoyed glance went unacknowledged by Sherlock; he was forgoing their plan. They were to go by their middle names – William and Cornelia – and use their mother’s maiden surname – Courbet. In her mind, the most glaring discrepancy was his pronouncement that they were married. Anstice did not think she could like any suggestion less.

                “Do you live in Marseille?”

                “Yes, we own a little book shop by the opera house.” Anstice cut off Sherlock’s reply, her smile possessing dangerous undercurrents. “What about you, mademoiselle – are you a visitor or have we been unfortunate enough not to cross paths?”

                “My mother and I are visiting from the United States. Friends of ours were very enthusiastic about the exhibition, so we had to investigate the excitement!” The fair-haired woman laughed lightly. Sherlock moved closer to Anstice, placing a protective arm about the woman’s waist – a gesture noticed by Rachel. The pair were obviously more fascinated with the American’s mannerisms than creating the best avenue to speed their job along.

                “As long as you and your mother are enjoying Marseille,” Anstice tried, unsure of how to answer.

                “How long will you be here?” Sherlock picked up.

                Rachel thought for a moment. “Only a month; we’re staying with close friends and nothing is set in stone. Honestly, I hope for longer. I didn’t think it would be so beautiful here!”

                Rachel Wilson was, above all else, a naively happy spirit. She was polite, talkative and engaging with any patron – especially the Holmeses. Every word fell from her lips with pleasant airs and her humorous touches managed get Sherlock chuckling. The only hint of Richard Brook’s claimed fatal flaw was in her habit of being overly, and especially, warm towards Sherlock. Anstice swallowed her extra giggles at her brother’s uncomfortable stature; ‘get me away from her’ was etched into his joints. Anstice made no attempt to save him – she thought it was justified after the declaration of marriage.

                Eventually, the young lady excused herself to rescue her mother, who was still trapped in conversation with the lawyer. Her ice-blue dress trailed behind her, parting the crowd in a wake behind. Sherlock shook of his irritation, preparing to restart the act when Jennifer arrived. A feeling rose in Anstice’s chest, making her feel more and more like prey but without a guess at who the predator was. She fidgeted a moment, picked at the fabric of her gloves, and brushed imaginary dust from the amber fabric of her dress. A hand wrapped around her wrist as her fingers went to tuck away stray curls.

                “Stop it, Ana.” Sherlock ordered in a steady baritone. “You’ll make us both nervous.”

                Anstice nodded and tried. After a minute, she exhaled in defeat against the strange anxiety. “Are you certain she’ll have a headache?”

                “I’m more than certain.”

                “We are relying on her saying that, which is hopeful at best. Please tell me you have another option, Sherlock.” The same damned jitters that had plagued her after Catherine Riley’s article were reappearing. Her nervous tic of readjusting her rings and bracelets was clearly driving Sherlock up the wall, but the urge would creep back into her joints after every attempt to abstain. Her brother pulled her closer to him, so they were a picture of loving husband and wife (despite Sherlock’s blatant frustration). A light hand on her shoulder stilled some of the movement. For once, the man had become the voice of reason. He was content to be seen as the erratic one, but that role was unavailable whilst Anstice persisted in being irrational.

                “Mon Coeur, I don’t pretend to know women better than you. Miss Wilson, however, seems just the flighty type who would believe herself ill as the slightest whiff of discomfort.” He smiled tenderly; Anstice assumed someone was watching them. “If it doesn’t happen, then we make do with other arrangements. I’m sure we could weed out an allergy…”

                Just as he wrapped up his sentence, Rachel reappeared with her mother. The matronly woman was introduced as Jennifer and she primly shook hands with both of the Holmeses. If any attendee emanated a bad aura, it was her. Anstice could have sworn she had met the same woman, although during her years at finishing school. The nuns that watched over their gestures and dress carried themselves in the same, self-important way. Jennifer Wilson engendered in Anstice a sensation of frost lacing over the skin of her back, neck, forearms – where ever it could reach. The dark haired woman shivered in spite of the balmy mid-April evening.

                The four of them talked about redundant topics – the Exhibition, Marseille, and the less-than-fantastic quality of the band. Rachel’s date, a shifty-eyed young man who was not as important as he believed himself, joined the conversation long enough to whirl the lady into a dance. The Holmeses quietly excused themselves for one song while Rachel was occupied for three. In the meanwhile, Anstice and Sherlock continued chatting with Mrs. Wilson. A quick side-conversation in Gaelic – which made Sherlock appear to be asking Anstice if she wanted a drink – cleared up that both siblings needed to watch themselves around the woman. The suspicion-bearing aloofness of Jennifer Wilson was intensely concerning. Sherlock wondered how much really got past the woman.

                When Rachel returned from her three waltzes, ten minutes did not pass before she had excused herself. Anstice could feel her brother’s gaze on her and she crumbled. Smoothly, she dismissed herself to go check on Rachel. As she suspected, Rachel was in the bathroom, legs crossed demurely and wafting air onto her face with a purple fan. She smiled when she saw Anstice approach.

                “You didn’t have to come looking for me.” Rachel admonished, closing the fan. “It’s nothing so serious – just a dizzy spell is all!” Anstice nodded, half-listening. Most of her brain was buzzing with thoughts of the pill enclosed within the funeral ring, like buzzards about a dying beast. She tried they would not dissolve like her dreams at sunrise. Seating herself next to Rachel, Anstice worked the ring off her finger. It was sickeningly beautiful with its garnet and virginal mother of pearl roses, hiding such wicked things within its heart of hearts. She did not like to think a gift from her beloved mother would come to mimic her – Anstice Cornelia Holmes – by such damning furlongs.

                Her fingers shook violently as she popped open the lid. “Before my mother died, she taught me about medicine from the old days. I was younger, so it was simple mixes but my brothers taught me more after she died. I make all sorts of remedies myself and I always keep a tablet with me.” Anstice tipped the ring and the pill dropped out into the nest of her palm. Rachel watched the little white oval, intrigued. “It’s a cure all for headaches and minor ails. You can have it, if you’d like it.”

                Rachel was hesitant, staring curiously at the pale pearl, and then smiled gratefully. Her lips moved, probably in thanks but Anstice didn’t hear the words. She blithely grinned and closed the ring’s lid. Her breathing, silent as it was, betrayed her purity had anyone truly been studying it. Horror-laced the pattern of inhales and exhales, even as Anstice desperately tried to stifle the sound. Rachel was none the wiser. In a dream state, the American picked up a squat glass, powdered the pill in to it, and filled it. She raised the glass to her lips and swallowed. It was done – she was done.

                “I’ll leave you be, mademoiselle.” Anstice’s voice returned, astonishingly calm despite the inner torment. As though in a trance, the woman traipsed on soles light as air back into the ballroom and slipped an arm around Sherlock’s. She beamed at Mrs. Wilson and reported Rachel’s improving in spirits; words that comforted the older American woman. After two more dances, the Holmeses bade Mrs. Wilson goodnight. Anstice asked her to pass on the sentiment to Rachel (wherever she may be, although Anstice knew exactly where).

                Salts of sorrel were not the easiest method to use, but it feigned food poisoning well. The Wilson girl would be found, clammy but burning with supposed fever. Her pulse would be in the process of slowing or have just faded. She would have vomited profusely the entire contents of her stomach and fainted dead away in her beautiful blue dress. She would seize in pain, convulse, and finally slip away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear lovely readers,   
> I apologize for the semi-long wait. Musical rehearsal and school are starting to get to me. Plus, I am the undisputed Queen of getting distracted. Anyways, the next chapter might take a bit because of the craziness! I will try my best to keep up.  
> Thank you to those who have read and enjoyed - I got the nice surprise of kudos in my inbox this morning, so thank you for that (I'm honored)!  
> Any questions, please ask. I will always answer.  
> CLE  
> micro-blog: orchidscript.tumblr.com  
> venti-blog: philadelphiascribbles.blogspot.com


	6. The Ledger Book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel Wilson causes more trouble than she was worth; a problem that needs to be put right.

“Did you really check the dosage? And I mean reviewed the measure and combination more than the two times I watched?” This was the most recent flare in the rant Sherlock had been consumed in for the last half hour. The man was storming about the room, the newspaper article that had so inflamed him crushed in his palm. Anstice sat at the stained glass windows in the dining room, pressing her cheek to the cool glass and absent-mindedly twisting her mother’s ring. Sherlock could detect distress a mile away. It would only anger him more to see the blatant display on her face  
Rachel Wilson was still alive, albeit unconscious in a hospital bed. Mrs. Wilson had discovered the unfortunate and lax form of her daughter an hour after the Holmeses had departed the Exhibition Gala. Anstice imagined that divorced their presence in the incident, but her mentioning the hope brought forth a rare fury from Sherlock. He had convinced himself that Rachel Wilson’s continued breath – a fluke in the gravest of senses – would be their end. Granted, this was not the first time a victim had taken up residence in Saint Agatha’s wards, but none survived the ordeal. Mademoiselle Wilson, according to Detective Lestrade (as reported by Mme. Catherine Riley), would be awake, alert, and communicating in a few day’s time.  
“What has gotten into your skull, Ana, to make you this bloody incompetent?!” Sherlock shouted at her, roughly shaking her shoulders. A yelp escaped her lips. Truth be told, Anstice had forgotten what her brother was like when he was angry – vindictive sprang to mind, encompassing the entire mood. The young woman floundered, bits and half-bits of words spilling from her mouth uncontrollably.  
Sherlock jerked her again. He growled: “Answer me.”  
Her head rolled on top of her neck, triggering the brain’s mechanism to make all thoughts go silent. It was sensation like relief washing over the body – warmth that pooled at the crown of her head, trickling down the spinal column, numbing the butterfly flutters of her heart and lungs, finally wrapping like creeping grape vines around her abdomen a thighs. Anstice no longer felt the window’s cool kiss or the cushion beneath her knees – it would not have taken much to believe she was floating where she sat. Now was not the time for relief. Sherlock watched the cognitive-blocking anxiety melt out of his sister’s face. She softly exhaled, chin dropping to chest. What Sherlock would have done to see her eyes – to feebly grasp at the insides of his sister’s skull.  
“I’ll put it right… Sherlock, please unhand me.” Her voice brushed against Sherlock’s cheek. His hands released her shoulders. His sister wasted no time sweeping from the room.  
Sherlock remained behind, trying to process the shift in Anstice. The nervousness had been new weeks ago but, on the whole, was simply a repetition of a childhood habit. It was absolutely odd. Yet her polar-switch in reaction was dumbfounding. It left the man rooted to the spot where Anstice had left him on the carpet. Anstice had never truly divorced herself from the emotional aspect of their side-work. Some of the deaths upset her but she, like woman did, gathered her dignity and pressed forward. Minutes before, Sherlock had seen an absence in Anstice’s expression that mimicked his own. He could not help but wonder how traumatically he had upset the delicate balance between them.

 

Dr. John Watson routinely kept to his private practice. Having been married six years and a father for four years, he decided early on that having regular working hours was paramount. When this had dawned on him, John had promptly resigned from his hospital post and started a private practice. Of course, pressing matters arose at Saint Agatha’s Hospital and he was more than happy to assist in the doctors on staff. Mary Morstan, the woman who would become his lovingly patient wife, had been there with her high-standing naval captain father when Dr. Watson met her; the captain was in his final days and rendered bed-ridden by a stomach ulcer. When the man had finally expired, John had spent time apologizing to Miss Morstan, who was more comforted that the captain had gone out in his sleep rather than chattering away.  
Most of the time, they granted him a young nurse – Nurse Molly Hooper – who was a touch mousy, but smart as a whip and more capable than other more squeamish types. The hospital would never allow Mademoiselle Hooper to work alone. To Dr. Watson’s mind, the young woman would make a better physician than most of the men the hospital employed.  
Usually the pair worked together when the elderly or children’s wards were understaffed, but occasionally they were assigned a few singular patients. Dr. Watson would do his rounds, gave Nurse Hooper a few easy directions, and then move on to the next patient. John, however, had never been assigned a singular patient before. A few wealthy old ladies had been known to pay for private treatment, but never someone as young as the American, Rachel Wilson. Saint Agatha’s had called on the doctor to tend with the most delicate situation since a deteriorating Viennese princess some year back. Mademoiselle Wilson, according to the police, had been poisoned at the Exhibition Gala the evening prior. Her condition stabilized, the young woman flickered in and out of consciousness.  
Madame Wilson held a bitter vigil by her daughter’s bedside, snapping at any doctor who attempted to check pulse without paperwork. John was not accustomed to combating watchdog relations, but had prepared an arsenal. Most importantly was Nurse Hooper at his side to soften the irritable American woman.  
“Good evening, Madame!” Molly trilled happily. The nurse’s arms were stiff with the carrying weight of a dinner tray. This evening, Madame Wilson would dine on a meal tragically below her standards – not that Saint Agatha’s needed her good opinion for anything other than healthcare. Approaching the secluded room, John could hear nothing outside of Molly’s quick steps.  
Jennifer Wilson had turned tired and placid in the hours since her arrival. Her dark blonde hair, though still neat, was arranged more plainly than her dress allowed for. Upon first glance, she might have been the Viennese princess. The warnings of the woman’s erratic moods ringing in his brain, John grappled to see that image. Jennifer Wilson acted as any mother would have – protective of and scared for her daughter. She smiled weakly at Molly, unable to muster conversation; a woman desperate to be undefeated.  
Hesitantly, Dr. Watson approached the bed where Rachel Wilson’s prone form lay. Her lips were parted for breath, her chest rising like a sparrow’s. Mused blonde hair spread about the pillow like an impromptu halo and palms rested upwards, exposing the wrists’ tender flesh. Without issue, Dr. Watson measured Rachel’s respiration and pulse, delicately placing a cold compress Nurse Hooper had brought on the forehead (the young woman’s body threatened to boil itself to death).  
“Has she improved any in your time here, Madame Wilson?” Dr. Watson asked calmly, standing opposite the mother.  
“She murmurs things sometimes, nonsensical things, but…” Jennifer trailed off. John awaited the sentence’s end. “Anything sounds hopeful at the moment, doctor.”  
“As it should, Madame. Your daughter seems stable for now. I’ll return in half an hour with a pain injection and a new compress.” The doctor paused to gesture to the nurse. “If you anything should arise, please ask for Nurse Hooper or myself.”  
Molly, carefully arranging the dinner tray, perked up and nodded encouragingly. Jennifer appeared pleased, but her gaze returned to Rachel’s motionless face. Not even a nerve tic rattled the slack mouth and shut eyes. John had to applaud the American for keeping her head – plenty would have gone straight to pieces in unfriendly company. Quietly, Nurse Hooper and Doctor Watson slipped from the room into the deserted corridor.  
“Poor lamb…” John heard Molly mumble. He was not sure who – Rachel and Jennifer - the girl was talking about, so he made no reply. They carried on down the hall in silence. Molly took Rachel Wilson’s chart and went to return it to the other progress charts. John busied himself with a few extra patients in the public wards while a few woman volunteers serving dinner. He did not expect to see Anstice Holmes leading the group of seven. He knew she occasionally assisted Saint Agatha’s in devising treatment plans – the hospital would not accept any recommendations without Sherlock’s own signature, but John knew she was not adverse to forging the disheveled scrawl. John left the woman pharmacist to her work and offered a slight nod.  
When Dr. Watson returned to the Wilson’s room, he noted the dramatic atmosphere shift. Jennifer Wilson was pacing from her daughter’s bed to the window pensively. If it was possible, worry creased her features more deeply. Dr. Watson approached Rachel and cleared the air from the syringe before inserting it in to the upper arm. The man did not have time to realize he had forgotten the new compress before Jennifer approached him.  
“What can I do for you, Madame Wilson?” Dr. Watson began semi-cheerfully. He did not need to make eye contact with the woman to understand her urgency.  
“Doctor Watson, I would very much appreciate your help in contacting the police.”

 

Anstice wandered the halls of Saint Agatha’s hospital in the manner of a specter. The skirt of her plain black dress billowed behind her in a wake. Of course, she wore the customary apron of a hospital nurse, sported the mouth-nose covering of the women stationed in the infection wards. At this time of night, most patients were soundly asleep and the doctors always started their patrols on the ground floor. No one would have thought to glance twice at her, especially at the contents of her apron pocket – scalpel, handkerchief, and vial of chloroform. They would have asked which doctor was expecting her; there were only three on duty: Gershwin, Perrault and Watson. Now, the hospital sported nurses Hooper, Sawyer and Holmes. Not a soul had crossed her path, yet. Still, Anstice had an unsettling feeling that this would be an easy procedure. It would be a dirty and damned direct deed, but seamlessly executed.  
Anstice could do without the assistance of Sherlock. In fact, he would have been dead weight on her brisk pace. A warmness spread from the crown of her skull into her shoulders, seeped into her spine and her skin. Sherlock would be proud of her – just like when they were little and she destroyed an experiment. She was going to clean up her own messes.  
The number of Rachel Wilson’s private room glinted temptingly in stray moonlight: 475. A singly, steadying breath inflated her lungs, then Anstice was pushing the door open. Sweeping across the wood floor, she placed her palm against Rachel Wilson’s clammy forehead. The patient was still bodied. Anstice methodically extracted the vial and cloth from her apron, dousing one side. One more easy inhale, exhale, and the hand cradling the fabric alighted upon Rachel’s half-open mouth. A bit of pressure, a few of Rachel’s breaths, the sound of clean, strong lungs began deteriorating.  
Rachel would not be a problem by hour’s end.  
“There wasn’t an order for surgery.”  
Whatever cool, collected visage Anstice had maintained shattered in time with the chloroform vial against the floor. The young woman whipped around, finding an exhausted Jennifer Wilson rising from a chair by the window. She could not possibly recognize Madame Holmes through the mask; Anstice’s natural reaction was to grasp the scalpel. Her nerves would seal her incrimination.  
“What did you do to my daughter?” Jennifer demanded. Brain foggy in fear, Anstice strode forward with arms at her sides. Petals of shadow colored fabric concealing the minuscule blade from Madame Wilson’s wandering gaze. The metal handle’s cold could not penetrate the thick fabric of Anstice’s gloves; the moment would have been real if the cold in her blood had a sensation to match. Adrenaline beat through Anstice’s heart like another life-giving substance, footsteps matching every other contraction. A hint of terror wormed into Jennifer’s face.  
“What did you do to Rachel?!” Burst from the mother’s lips. Within meter’s distance from each other, the elder woman lunged. Anstice was knocked onto her back. The younger woman wriggled, pinned to the floor boards like a mouse in a trap. Jennifer’s moment of strength did not last as long as she hoped. In no time, Anstice had gained the upper hand and reversed their positions. Madame Wilson clawed at Mademoiselle Holmes’ face, pulling hair and digging nails into tender skin. Limbs tangled – Anstice’s intent on subduing and Jennifer’s enabled by survival instincts.  
Anstice’s hair fell from its constraints and ensnared itself in the women’s arms; her face mask ripped from her mouth. A hand gained a solid grip on Jennifer Wilson’s flaxen tresses and directed her head to the floor again and again. Five times for good measure.  
Wilson’s eyes flickered shut, but her chest still rose with breath. Anstice’s eyes cast about frantically or a solution – this woman, unfortunate interceder as she was, could not be allowed to live. Jennifer had seen her face, knew her name, had probably guessed at her role in Rachel’s illness – and now death. Her hysterically searching mind remembered the scalpel, long discarded in the struggle. A thin fingered hand reached, lifting it into her palms to sensuously trail fingertips along its handle and metal blade.  
A long time ago, a cousin of Anstice’s had told Sherlock about a gruesome way people killed each other in Glasgow and Chelsea, London. Anstice had been terrified of her native Scotland. Now, the memory of those lurid, horrid depictions of death surfaced. They flooded her head and her hand moved of its own accord.  
Two deep slices at the corners of the mouth spread the grin beyond bodily ability. Red blood seeped out, tracing tear trails down powdered pale cheeks and staining teeth burnt orange, mixing with saliva.  
Bile prickled at the back of Anstice’s throat, the acid burning as it slid back down to rise again. As best she could, Anstice choked back her disgust and the sick threatening to spew forth. She turned over Jennifer Wilson’s body. It was an act of cowardice and necessity; the American need not be exposed to the world as she drowned in her own blood. Anstice ran through Saint Agatha’s corridors, skirts rustling to wake the dead and hair streaming. She looked like a mad woman, running between bars of moonlight. The halls were eerily vacant, her running going unnoticed. Finally out on the streets, Anstice dashed towards the Noailles.  
Her father had been a connoisseur of jugged hare, declaring that their cook made best in the British Isles. Anstice had watched cook make the dish, perpetually fascinated with the amount of blood one tiny rabbit could hold. Jennifer Wilson was her very own jugged hare, butchered with mediocre hand.  
“Mademoiselle Holmes, what is your hurry?” Anstice jumped against sudden restraints. Dr. John Watson was holding her gently, studying her with concern. It took her body longer to halt its struggling than it should have. The man eventually garnered his customary smile, the one reserved only for Mademoiselle Holmes.  
Anstice calmed enough to speak. “J-john, why a-are you out?”  
“I was called to check on a patient. I saw you at Saint Agatha this afternoon; didn't you depart with the others?”  
The young woman shook her head. “Dr. Perrault asked if I would assist him with a few mental patients. I was just leaving now when…”  
“When what?” John pressed. “Anstice?”  
“It is nothing, John, really. Just some wandering drunks rattled my nerves is all.” Anstice dismissed, but the man looked skeptical.  
“I imagined your nerves to be unshakable, mademoiselle.” John shifted his grip to her hands. “I would be more than happy to escort you home, Anstice.” The young woman quietly thanked him, insisting she would alright – if not a touch shaken up. She promised to have a cup of tea or a little brandy, and (against his better judgment) Dr. Watson let her go. He insisted on calling the Holmes residence in the morning as a precaution.  
With a last grateful smile, Mademoiselle Holmes scurried off down the pavement. The good doctor thought the rushed exchange was slightly odd, but what were most of his encounters with the Holmeses like? He had formed his deal with Sherlock the year prior through a series of invasive questions about his military endeavors in Baghdad and India. An hour in the siblings’ presence was enough to observe their simultaneous whirlwind paces. John did not register a new sheen on his dulling leather gloves. In fact, he did not remember seeing Anstice’s hands wet.

Sherlock had been aimlessly flipping through the pages of a book and pondering sleep. Fate had a funny way of inserting itself, a fickle friend at the best of times. The book’s spine thud against the rug as Anstice dropped onto his chest, perhaps out of nowhere. Clad in her nursing attire, his sister shook against him. She flinched when he laid a tender hand on her curls.  
“Ana,” he began, doing no more to impress his desire for an explanation. Anstice shook her head, but Sherlock had a gift for drawing forth information. His patience, however, was wearing thing when her lips parted.  
“I put it right. I put everything right.” She said with quavering voice. Without permission, the girl curled up against his side, and begged to be allowed to sleep there. Sherlock wordlessly removed her cloak and pulled back the sheets, allowing her to crawl underneath.

 

Sherlock should have seen it – them – coming. The way Anstice had demanded sanctuary the night before should have triggered a red flag in his brain. He hated to excuse himself (especially by cause of bodily functions), but Sherlock felt the exhaustion in his bones. All his acute awareness was, of course, in retrospect. When the Marseille police knocked at the door, the man had the presence of a spooked cat. Anstice’s anxiety had seeped into his synapses. When the lead investigator, Lestrade, initiated a search of the property, Sherlock struggled to string a sentence together.  
When Lestrade demanded to see Anstice, Sherlock’s off-guard attitude morphed from frantic to childish.  
“No, she’s asleep.”  
“Then wake her up, Monsieur Holmes.” The detective snapped. “I honestly do not have time for your bullheaded-ness.”  
“Lestrade, if you want to speak to my sister whilst tearing apart our home for God knows what reason, then you may face her wrath yourself.” Sherlock said, firmer. “I will not take you to her.”  
Lestrade was on the brink of striking the younger man. His forearms were strapped to his sides by muscles so clenched. “How do you expect me to locate her?”  
“You are a detective.” Sherlock hissed. “Deduce.”  
With a huff, the silver haired man was trouping up the stairs and brushing off the few underlings who were all too eager to help. The police had not deemed the pharmacy off limits. If the protectors of Marseilles were there for the most obvious reason, Sherlock decided to figure a way to remove the most incriminating evidence.  
Due to the number of men destroying the pharmacy’s orderly shelves, Sherlock deemed it safer to case the back room. His experiments and notes lay there, more interesting than the concealed safe-box sporting a false bottom (his older brother occasionally passed on useful tidbits of political gossip). The various packets, files, and notebooks filled with the properties of deadly substances and how to extract deadlier concoctions from them. Sherlock would be damned if anyone confiscated his cantarella recipe.  
The safe, stowed covertly within his main supply closet, was easily opened (his mother’s maiden name converted to a number sequence). Some papers had to be folded, but every dubious scrap fit behind the backing. The papers being out of sight only alleviated a bit of his anxiety. The most pressing issue on Sherlock’s mind was keeping the ledger out of Lestrade’s clutches. It was an assassin’s notebook; exactly what the mayor’s bulldog would be searching for.  
Soundlessly, Sherlock returned to the store front and assumed a position behind the counter. He began flipping through the large store ledger to try drawing attention to innocuous recordings. The police would care not for how much baby formula they had sold in January, ounce for ounce. It worked – a rookie approached and politely (albeit forcefully) asked for the book. Grudgingly, Sherlock handed the thing over but internally brimmed with joy. He only had to wait until all of the lackeys were reasonably distracted. Then and only then did Sherlock reach his hand into the under counter drawer to extract the black-stained leather notebook. It fit snugly between the lining of his waist coat and shirtfront, supported additionally by the crook of his hip bone.  
Biding time, he straightened a few things as normal people would. He regarded a few officers with a nod before striding to the stairs. Sherlock had nearly made it to the servant’s stairs when a small shriek went up from the main staircase. Out of instinct, the dark haired man whipped back around, taking off down the hall. Sherlock was just in time to see Lestrade and Dimmock dragging Anstice down, the woman barely within the constraints of “dressed”. Her curls were wild, making her a caged animal than a woman violently awoken. His muscles stiffened.  
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” Anstice called as Dimmock yanked her to the front door. Sherlock caught sight of her face as she tried to jerk around. His sister had been crying steadily. Lestrade was now at his side, hand closing iron-clad about his bicep. Cold dread washed over Sherlock’s nerve-endings, commingling with the surprise of Anstice’s undoing.  
“I don’t know, Ana.” He replied. He felt his legs being taken away from him, Lestrade taking the lead. A tremor passed through his voice: “I-I’m coming, don’t worry.”  
Once the siblings were shoved side by side into the police vehicle, Anstice leaned over to cling to her brother. Feeling the little black ledger against his ribs made the chill in Sherlock’s limbs threaten to deaden all sensation. Fate had, undoubtedly, set her unwavering course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School had been getting to me lately - bogged down with all the work teachers dump on you before you head off to spring break. I am one of now 21 junior girls that have not gone home on medical leave due to mental breakdowns.  
> I consider that a medal of honor because I feel very very close... at least I have a few guy friends to keep me sane.  
> My dear friend, queen_of_hells_bells, is currently in Spain on an exchange trip and I am lonely for the most part. You never realize how much you will miss your roommate until they leave...  
> Anyway, I'm glad I finally got a change to update and I hope you all are enjoying thus far. I appreciate everyone who decided to read the whole thing or simply stopped in for a preview :D  
> You all rock!  
> Carie


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